


Terminal

by Tzalmavet



Category: Middens
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Violence, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-30 04:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10153643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tzalmavet/pseuds/Tzalmavet
Summary: The Nomad spends some time alone with his thoughts and a local syringe.





	

The Nomad cast his gaze into the dirty room.  One hand cautiously caressed the door's metal frame, and the other held his revolver.  Two large, purple, fruitlike entities with wooden legs and yellow cats' eyes stood perfectly still while a white syringe fluttered about them absently on feathery wings.  The weapon in his hand flicked a beady eye between the syringe and himself expectantly, but made no protest as he holstered it and strolled inside.

The room wasn't very clean, but the Nomad didn't care much about that, then.  He'd been walking for hours, and stayed busy nearly the entire time.  He had a lot on his mind, and he was tired.  He'd noticed a broken grate on the far side that he could escape through if things suddenly got hairy, and he definitely needed a little rest.  So he brushed aside some of the dust with a foot and sat down on the floor, leaning back into the wood of one of the fruits' legs.

He wasn't feeling quite terrible enough to remove his helmet, but he still longed to press his fingers into his sore temples.  The sounds were still ringing through his mind and he didn't like it.  He was tired, too tired to push away the memories that came trotting back to him like starving dogs.  It hadn't been that long ago, either.

He hadn't intended to start the fight, he really hadn't.  He hadn't even known the thing was alive.  It was an easy mistake, he told himself.  Anyone would've thought it to be just another part of the scenery, he told himself.

He'd been walking confidently through some nearby corridors, all rusty, all looking the same as each other.  He'd seen the peculiar object before, hovering back and forth in midair; a giant, shining sphere with a pitch-black hole gaping open in its top side.

And he'd thought, curiously, what would happen if he fired upon it?  Would it do nothing, like the so many walls and doors of the building it resided in?  Or would it ricochet off its surface, and the projectile produce a bell-like resonance in the orb?  There was only one way to find out, and he'd barely pondered the action before taking aim and squeezing the trigger.

The metallic being then screamed as if he'd lit it on fire, and a silvery arm immediately shot out and swung a spiked scepter at the Nomad's face.  In a panic, he invoked his proxies and fired again.  The sphere kept flailing its scepter, and a despair-filled wail sang out from the hole in its crown:

_"Please, I have a family."_

And, scarcely had the fight began, the thing was already shot dead.  Sank to the grimy floor with that same pitiful mewl.  
Everything he killed, no matter how large or fearsome, died with that sound.  The peculiar object had been alive.

_"You've got blood on your hands."_

Blood and about a thousand other things.  Slimes, chemicals, sequins, and all other manners of unidentifiable fluids and materials were spilled whenever he offed another Rift-dweller.  One would certainly have quite the fascinating smoothie if they took the time to blend all of the things that'd been splattered across the Nomad together.  He kept his gloves on when he fought, and yet his hands still always felt dirty afterwards.

_"Reports of random shootings have been circulating the shelter. You've been forewarned."_

He couldn't bring himself to meet its wide-eyed gaze whenever the innocent bubble spoke.  Instead he'd look to his Nothings.  Every one, a life taken.  Bits of colorful goo and cheap bric-a-brac.  Ancient coffins from long-dead civilizations and grisly jewelry fit for deities.  Dusty books with photographs inside, pictures of people, pictures of happy memories.  Pictures of _families_.  He was wary to count how many Nothings he carried with him, but he felt their presence weighing on his mind more and more as he ventured ever deeper into the Rift.

_"You know... if you ever want to end it all, I'm here for you."_

More words from his talkative revolver, spoken amidst familiar sand and streetlights.  He'd acknowledged it with a stare and a nod, and that had been that, but the exchange never left his mind.  He wondered, how long would it be before that offer started to sound truly generous?  How many more Soul Eaters would have to bombard him when he peacefully strummed his guitar?  How many more dirty looks, looks that _knew_ , would have to be seared into him by perfect strangers as he passed?  How much longer until those warm white words and a hot black bullet were the only things moving through his mind at all?

The Nomad sighed.  Even if day and night meant anything, he still would've had no idea how much time had passed since he'd entered the Rift.  He was tired.  He wanted to fall asleep, fall asleep and have a nice, quiet dream.  Or no dream at all.

The syringe was pacing back and forth in the air near him.  Was it native to the Rift, or a weary vagrant, like he was?

It fluttered above him, and he looked up to it.  The two regarded each other in silence for a moment, when it said, with all of the soft and clinical concern that came naturally to such medical instruments:

_"You look ill."_

It wasn't wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't finished this game but that sure ain't gonna stop me from writing about it.


End file.
